


Teddy Blueger is a Really, Really, Really Good Boy

by BananaStickers



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Crushes, Feelings Realization, Jealousy, M/M, Pre-Poly, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:41:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22160152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BananaStickers/pseuds/BananaStickers
Summary: Tristan and Teddy might be fucking, but it's not athing.It's bad form to fall in love when you're in the AHL.  Who knows where you'll be next?  There's not enough permanence for love.But then they both make the show.And so does a certain Latvian goaltender.
Relationships: Teddy Blueger/Elvis Merzlikins, Teddy Blueger/Tristan Jarry
Comments: 21
Kudos: 77





	Teddy Blueger is a Really, Really, Really Good Boy

**Author's Note:**

> This sprung out of two things:
> 
> [This picture](https://i.imgur.com/KS1vz6i.jpg)
> 
> [And this article](https://triblive.com/sports/from-latvia-to-the-metropolitan-division-penguins-teddy-bluegers-friendship-with-columbus-elvis-merzlikins-endures/) (where the title comes from, in Elvis' words).
> 
> WIPs return next week! For now, enjoy!

Teddy looks best when he’s on his knees, getting fucked.

Not that Tristan would ever, _ever_ admit that out loud. Teddy looks good in a lot of things, really: out there in his Pens uniform rushing the forecheck, dressed to the nines in a game day suit, shirtless in just his joggers after a workout session, he looks good in it all. But there’s something about Teddy in the deep throes of pleasure that is just otherworldly. And Tristan especially likes when Teddy is on his knees, the lean lines of his body splayed out, head tilted back and mouth open to the ceiling.

It’s easy to study him like this in a way he never gets to, sitting in a stiff-backed chair that’s a mockery of comfort in a hotel room that wants to pretend it’s classy. Tristan has a front row seat for the show, and Teddy doesn’t disappoint, but then again he never does. His hair - in that stupid assymetrical cut that Tristan hated at first but is growing on him - is tangled and mussed, and one lone curl bounces off his forehead during every thrust. His shoulders are a little hunched in, exhausted from the losing effort in Columbus tonight, but his hips still circle and rock, trying to make it good for the other man. His dick hangs hard between his legs; Teddy isn’t moving to touch it. Tristan wants to, but he stays rooted in his seat.

Suddenly Teddy shifts, and the view blurs, and Tristan isn’t sure anymore where Teddy ends and the other man begins. He risks a glance upwards, just a peek, and - 

He locks eyes with Elvis. Elvis is _watching_ him.

How could Elvis be watching Tristan, when Teddy is right there underneath him? Teddy, with his flushed face and quivering jaw, the long expanse of his back, his hands clenching rhythmically in the comforter - how could anyone take their eyes off _that?_

~~~~~

Tristan reads the tweet, reads it again, reads it _again,_ reads it _**again,**_ as if it’s going to change, as if the letters are going to rearrange themselves on the page, as if - like Teddy - English is not his native language and perhaps he just misunderstood.

_He’s a really, really, really good boy._

Teddy is. That’s true. But nobody else is supposed to know that.

~~~~~

It’s not like they’re a thing. Not a _thing,_ not like Sid and Tanger are a thing, because when you’re in the AHL, things are dangerous. Nobody wants a thing, at least not if you’ve been in the A more than a year, because you learn quick that everyone you know and love is temporary. Guys get sent up, guys get sent down, guys get traded, guys go to Europe. There is no permanence, there are no _things_ when you’re riding a bus around the country, getting paid peanuts and feeling lucky that you’re even getting that.

There are no things but that doesn’t mean there isn’t sex. On the contrary, the A could charitably be called a giant orgy, with the games sometimes just deciding who tops and who bottoms that night. But sex isn’t for every team, and that’s how it started. It was early in the season against the Phantoms, and like hell was Tristan going to go fuck any of them; there are some lines you don’t cross, not even in the A. Besides, if he was being honest with himself, he was still licking his wounds, watching Casey take his spot in the big club. Another year wasted. It didn’t make for showing anyone a good time.

And it didn’t take a rocket scientist to know that Teddy was feeling the same way, sad about another missed shot, wondering what he needed to do to take that next step. But unlike Tristan, shot through with bitter jealousy he mostly managed to successfully hide from teammates, the press, and even himself, Teddy just put his head down and _worked._ Teddy wanted to get better. Teddy wanted to be good.

Philadelphia isn’t even far enough from Wilkes-Barre to have gotten a fucking hotel, so they rode back on the bus that night, a bumpy two hours. The deep dark of rural Pennsylvania at night has a way of luring men to sleep, and suddenly it was just Tristan and Teddy awake, sitting next to each other, talking quietly. Teddy was - _is_ \- smart, earnest, funny.

Tristan wondered what he would look like on his knees, getting fucked.

He didn’t find out that night, too damn tired for it by the time their goddamn _bus_ dropped them off in goddamned Wilkes-Barre, but the next night, yeah. And the night after that. And the one after that, too.

Teddy was a really, really, really good boy, every single time.

~~~~~

Around Christmas, they take a picture together that Tristan quite likes. Wilkes-Barre has this old-fashioned market for Christmastime, with carriage rides and cider and sweets and lights everywhere. Teddy buys them both cookies, in defiance of their diets, and they wander off together, trying not to let their teammates catch them snacking.

They end up in some little park, mostly deserted, strung with a few lights over the bare trees. Even after the cookies are finished, they sit on a cold bench together, huddling for warmth and laughing. At some point a stranger comes by and Teddy gets him to take a photo of them, happy and laughing, both their noses bright red from the cold.

Then Tristan drags Teddy back to his place and they find a way to warm each other up.

~~~~~

Teddy gets called up to the NHL in late January, and Tristan tries not to let that old jealousy monster consume him, watching him play for Casey and Muzz. He switches his phone background to the photo of them at Christmas, and they text sometimes, but they don’t call. They’re not a _thing._

~~~~~

Tristan doesn’t see Teddy at the end of the year, because he’s stuck cleaning out his locker in the middle of rural fucking Pennsylvania and Teddy is across the state, and then he’s in Slovakia with the rest of Team Latvia.

Towards the end, Teddy sends him a photo. Ostensibly, it’s the entirety of the Latvian squad, but Tristan’s eyes are drawn to the center, where Teddy is draped over the goalie in a mockery of the exact pose they did at Christmas. They’re happy and laughing, arms around each other, like their own little island surrounded by their countrymen.

The goalie’s name, Tristan would later Google, is Elvis Merzlikins. What kind of name is Elvis?

He wonders for a brief moment if maybe Teddy showed Elvis the pic of them at Christmas, showing that Tristan had him first, but - that’s ridiculous.

They’re not a _thing._

~~~~~

It’s Casey’s turn to eat his jealousy this year, because Tristan makes the show out of camp. Realistically, he knows it has to do with cap space and not him beating Casey out for the job, but whatever, he’ll take what he’s given and make the best of it.

Teddy makes the show, too. It’s a good idea to room together, right? Save on rent, someone to help with cooking?

They get three bedrooms - one for each of them, and one for guests - but they only end up using the big master, tangled together in bed every night. Teddy’s not always on his knees. Sometimes he’s on his back, or on his stomach, and Tristan even lets Teddy fuck him once in awhile. He doesn’t love it, but he does love the new expressions on Teddy’s face, so different than when he’s bottoming, so it’s worth it.

What they have together - it’s still not a thing, see. They’re not like Sid and Tanger, cornerstones of the franchise, a life built together in Pittsburgh. They might be in the NHL but nothing has changed; either of them could be moved at any time. Tristan knows he’s been in trade rumors. He has eyes and ears, he _knows._ In one phone call he could be across the country. Hell, he could be in another country altogether.

It hasn’t been a thing for over a year; how can it start now?

~~~~~

Elvis gets his first start against them and gets blown the fuck out, 7-2. Teddy scores the seventh off an unscreened wrister, and even from his seat on the bench Tristan can see Elvis shaking his head, defeated. He feels a little bad, because as a fellow member of the goalie guild he’s obligated to. But he doesn’t feel _that_ bad. Some kind of emotion is preventing him from really feeling empathetic, but he doesn’t examine that too hard. It’s relief, maybe. With all the injuries, the Pens really needed this win.

Plus, it’s Teddy’s first goal of the year, and Tristan is pretty fucking happy for him.

He catches Teddy holding Elvis in the hallway, clutched in a tight hug, rubbing his back. Elvis is crouched down, face buried in Teddy’s shoulder, long limbs wrapped around Teddy like a - like a fucking octopus or something. Tristan lets them go, heads back to the locker room to wait, because they rode to the rink together. Some of the guys are heading out, and he’s got an open invite; he thinks about declining, but then he gets a text from Teddy to go on without him, he’s going to be late. So he accepts the invite, has a drink or two, and heads back to their rental apartment.

Teddy’s still not home.

Teddy doesn’t get home until almost breakfast, and Tristan thinks he looks rumpled and mussed, the way he looks after a long fuck. Teddy barely gets two feet in the door before Tristan crowds him into the wall, right next to their $20 coat rack from IKEA, and muscles him down to his knees. “Tris, we have practice,” Teddy protests, but it’s weak.

“We have time,” Tristan says, shoving down his pajama bottoms and thrusting his cock into Teddy’s warm and wet and willing mouth.

He makes sure to yank Teddy’s hair and pull at his shirt while Teddy sucks him off, so when he stands back up after Tristan comes in his mouth - definitely looking rumpled and mussed - he can pretend like it was only him that made Teddy look like this.

~~~~~

They watch a lot of hockey on off-nights. Not like Sid does - the rumor is that he sits and takes _notes_ \- but it’s on their TV a lot.

Tristan notices it’s the Blue Jackets that are on more often than not. He lets Teddy control the remote, and that’s who he picks to watch.

Tristan notices, for sure.

~~~~~

Sid and Tanger invite them over for Thanksgiving with a bunch of the other new guys - Laff, Johnny, Kahuna - and there’s a stupid amount of food. At least some of it has to be professionally prepared. No way can Sid or Tanger cook like this.

At Sid’s house, he and Tanger are domestic in a way they never are at the rink, and once when Tristan is trying to find the bathroom in Sid’s giant mansion he accidentally spots the two of them, alone in the kitchen. They’re swaying together, locked in each other’s arms like they’re dancing to some secret silent slow song; Tanger is murmuring something in Sid’s ear, and Sid is laughing. They both have big, fond smiles on, staring at each other like they’re the only things in the world. Tanger leans down to kiss Sid, something Sid never allows when they’re with the team, and the moment their lips touch Tristan turns to flee, feeling like he’s intruding on something he was never meant to see.

This is what being together is: a life inexorably intertwined in a big mansion they both own, pictures of the two of them on the walls, laundry mixed together, no longer a ‘you and me’ but an ‘us’. Not crammed together in some cheap rental, two laundry baskets, two rental payments, figuring out 50% of the bills, a box of condoms on the nightstand because they’re not exclusive. Tristan and Teddy might be in one bed but Tristan knows there’s not an ‘us’, not like this.

But there never was supposed to be; everything is working out perfectly. Just the way he and Teddy planned.

So why does Tristan stay shut in that bathroom, head in his hands, staring at the floor and thinking about that kiss between Tanger and Sid?

He must just - it’s just that Sid and Tanger are so fucking _hot._ He’s riled up about it. He’s 24, he’s allowed to get riled up about two beautiful men kissing. That’s it.

That’s all it is.

~~~~~

It’s an ugly game against Columbus. Except this time, it’s the Penguins playing awful, with Tristan in net and Elvis on the bench. Once the final buzzer sounds, he has a fleeting thought that at least it wasn’t seven - only four, and then an empty netter - and he wonders if Elvis was on the bench feeling the empathy that Tristan tried so hard to muster during their last meeting.

Last time, Teddy went and cheered up Elvis, so Tristan is expecting the same sympathy treatment from him once they get back to the hotel, where they’re rooming together. Except Teddy starts tapping around on his phone, and Tristan realizes he’s calling an _Uber,_ and - 

“Where are you going?”

Teddy glances up, tilting his head. “Going to see Merzly. Elvis. I think I overheard a couple guys headed out - “

“No, it’s not that - “ Tristan jerks at the knot of his tie, suddenly angry. “I want...Teddy, I want you to stay with me.”

There’s a whole host of unreadable emotions that play along Teddy’s face. “If you just want a hookup, Johnny is - “

“No. No, not Johnny.”

“Well...“ Teddy frowns, chewing on his lip. “I promised. So I can’t stay here, but. You could come with?” At Tristan’s questioning look, he continues, “Merzly likes being watched. He’s got this, um, what’s the word, voyage. No - voyeur. Voyeur kink. So, you want to come?”

“Yes,” Tristan blurts out, before he can think too hard about it. It feels important to him that he stays with Teddy tonight, and besides - why should he be upset? If anything, he should be excited to have the chance to watch a live porn in front of him. Elvis is hot, anyone can see that.

So no, Tristan isn’t upset. Because they don’t have a thing. They’ve never had a _thing._

~~~~~

Objectively, it’s hot. Teddy’s cute, but Elvis is _handsome_, pale skin and dark tattoos and classic-cut cheekbones that men and women go nuts over. The way his hips snap, the loud smack of flesh-on-flesh, the whimpers from Teddy...Elvis knows what he’s doing here.

Tristan is hard, and turned on, and _angry._ He tells himself it’s because Elvis isn’t even touching Teddy. Teddy is leaking all over the bed, smearing against his belly as his cock slaps against his stomach with each thrust. It’s begging for a hand, but nothing comes. Not even a fucking reach around.

“Touch him,” Tristan hears himself demanding, and he can see the exhausted surprise in Teddy’s expression, the cool arch of an eyebrow from Elvis.

“Not until you get a turn,” Elvis says, and Tristan is so shocked he misses Elvis’ orgasm, catching only the tail end when Elvis brings his palm hard on Teddy’s ass with a _crack_ loud enough to startle him out of his reverie.

Tristan is about to protest that, too, but Teddy - he arches and _moans,_ like it’s the best thing in the world.

Alright then.

“Your go,” Elvis says, and Tristan shakes his head.

“Shouldn’t Teddy get a say?”

“Jars. Tris,” Teddy groans. “Please. C’mon.”

Tristan can’t exactly say no to that, so he stands up on suddenly-shaky legs, stares down so he can get his shirt unbuttoned. Two bare feet suddenly appear, and when Tristan looks back up, there’s Elvis, right in his face.

“Still dressed. What restraint,” he says, and Tristan tries hard to detect any notes of sarcasm, but there are none there. Suddenly, Elvis reaches up, wraps his fingers - his long, long fingers - right around Tristan’s jaw, pulls him in, and kisses him.

It’s a thorough fucking kiss. Elvis kisses like his reputation would suggest, cocky and brash and just a touch overbearing, and Tristan tries not to melt into it. When he pulls back, he whispers against Tristan’s mouth, “Let’s go take care of Teddy,” and that gets Tristan out of his stupor. Teddy, being such a good boy for both of them. They have to - _he_ has to take care of Teddy.

By the time he gets naked and over to the bed with a condom, Teddy’s on his back, chest heaving from where he’s still breathing hard. He looks exhausted. “Can we - here,” he asks, and as much as Tristan likes him on his knees, this is good too. This way, he gets to see Teddy’s face; plus, he just learned half a month ago that Teddy likes his nipples played with while he’s getting fucked. So Tristan can do that, too, his new favorite trick.

Teddy’s fucked-open but still so, so good when Tristan slides in. “Yeah,” Teddy moans, and Tristan’s just about to reach down and play with something - Teddy’s cock maybe, or a nipple, already stiff little nubs - but then the bed dips, and Elvis is there, saying something in Latvian which draws a smile out of Teddy. Then, even as Tristan thrusts, Elvis leans down and mouths at Teddy’s dick.

Tristan’s about to protest - _you had your turn_ \- but Teddy’s face is bliss, and Tristan doesn’t know how he can take this away from him. All he can see is the back of Elvis’ head, hair sticking up in tufts, and he can hear wet sucking sounds, Tristan’s thrusts driving Teddy’s dick into his throat.

“Fuck,” Teddy wails as Elvis crawls his fingers up Teddy’s chest to pinch at his nipple. Tristan stares at that hand with its long fingers, rolling and pinching one and then the other, stares at it because it means Elvis knows, too. How long has Elvis known that Teddy likes this?

How long?

Teddy telegraphs his orgasm with noise, with the way he shivers and jerks, and Tristan knows it’s coming. Elvis doesn’t move his mouth, swallows it all, and comes up smiling at Tristan like he’s just had a treat. He surges forward to kiss Tristan - 

No, he didn’t swallow it all. Didn’t swallow _any,_ because along with spit they’re swapping Teddy’s come into each other’s mouths, back and forth, hot and bitter.

Tristan comes tasting Teddy and Elvis in his mouth, not sure where one stops and the other begins.

~~~~~

They don’t talk about it after. What’s there to say?

Instead, they fly back to Pittsburgh, sit next to each other - like normal - and when they get home Tristan takes him to bed - like normal. Teddy gets on his knees and Tristan fucks him until tears leak out of his eyes and he’s screaming loud enough to get a noise complaint and they both end up exhausted and spent on the bed.

Like normal.

~~~~~

Teddy and Elvis start Facetiming nearly every night, and that's _not_ normal. Or if it was, Teddy had always hidden it from Tristan, but not anymore. They talk in English ("so we can practice," Teddy says) and every single time, Elvis wants to talk to Tristan. The first time or two, Elvis lets him go with just a muttered hello, but that quickly morphs into more demands for attention. Elvis wants to know how Tristan's day was. Or he wants to talk about something in Carey Price's game and ask Tristan's opinion on it. Or see how Tristan's Christmas shopping is going. Or a million other subjects that not even his Penguins teammates ask. Teddy asks, Teddy always asked, but that's because he's - Teddy. It's weird to have someone else taking an interest. 

Sometimes Tristan wants to blow him off, but Elvis looks genuinely interested, and Teddy looks so thrilled that they're talking that he finds it hard to refuse. He almost starts to - 

No, he's not looking forward to the talks, that would be ridiculous. It's just, who doesn't like when someone pays attention to them?

~~~~~

Tristan starts against the Blues and gets a shutout, which earns him another start and another shutout. Then Muzz has an awful game against the Red Wings and nobody says it, but Tristan sort of becomes the starter. He's not foolish enough to think it's anything but temporary, while Muzz works out his yips, but maybe…

If he keeps playing like he is - like he knows he can - he's going to make that decision very, very difficult.

"You deserve to be the starter," Elvis tells him flat-out that evening, what no one else has said, not even Teddy. "You're better than he is. You're a starter, man."

Tristan can feel that last lingering ball of hate in his brain melt away, the one that gives him a nasty joy when Elvis loses, the one that still gives him a pang of jealousy when he hears the Facetime ring. "Muzz is good," he says reflexively, because that's what you do, you support your partner. 

"But you're better," Elvis says, so earnest, and Teddy squeezes his hand, and Tristan just smiles and nods.

There's that little ball of emotions again, but this time it's in his stomach and it's a warm and gooey thing that he doesn't want to deconstruct too much. 

~~~~~

The Jackets are back in Pittsburgh a few days later, and Elvis bumps into him in warmups. "Good luck, starter," he says with a wink. When Tristan glances back at the Pens' side of the ice, he catches Teddy beaming at them. 

It's another win. Another _shutout,_ an OT winner which the Pens deserved to lose. Tristan kept them in it and he knows it, and he lets the team's love envelop him in the handshake line. Canner kisses his helmet; Jared has done that the last few games, so it's a tradition now. Tristan hopes that Teddy sees it every time. Not because he wants Teddy to be jealous or any - okay, fuck it, that's not true. Tristan wants Teddy to see. To realize what could happen. They're not a _thing_, but… but…

If Tristan really is the starter now, maybe they could be. There'd be a little more permanence. Still not like Sid and Tanger, but pretty much nobody gets what they have. For men like Tristan and Teddy, this might just be about as good as it gets. 

Tonight. Tristan is going to tell him _tonight,_ he decides. He sidles up to Teddy in the showers and murmurs, "Can't wait to get home," and then Teddy is giving him that smile, the one he gives Tristan when they're disagreeing about what to eat for lunch or what to watch on Netflix, the one that almost guarantees they're gonna do what Teddy wants. 

"I was hoping to bring Merzly home tonight," he says, and fuck, _fuck_ \- Tristan had totally forgotten about Elvis. 

"Teddy, no," he blurts out before he can stop himself, earning a side eye from Reeser standing nearby. "I gotta talk to you about something."

"Well, I wanna talk too. Let's just shower and then…after?"

"After," Tristan agrees. That's how they end up in an empty trainer's room when they're done showering, the dull murmur of guys getting cryo or getting sports massages filtering through the wall. It's not exactly how Tristan pictured this conversation going, but he doesn't care anymore. 

"You were amazing tonight," Teddy says, stepping up for a kiss once the door closes. 

"I love you," Tristan blurts against Teddy's mouth once the kiss breaks. Okay - _really_ not how Tristan pictured this going, but he's in for it now. Teddy stills, expression unreadable for a split second, but then he grins.

"Fuck, I love you too," Teddy says, and for as much joy as Tristan gets in hockey this is something entirely new, a fierce happiness that flushes instantly through his body, making him practically dizzy with it. But then - there's that placating smile on Teddy's face again. He looks nervous. "But not just you."

Not just…? "What does that mean?"

"Merzly," Teddy says. "Elvis."

"What about him?"

Teddy hesitates, but when he speaks next his voice is confident. "I love him, too. Just like I love you."

Something cracks inside Tristan, the uncomplicated joy breaking into a thousand pieces. "What? You can't - that's not - you can't do that."

"But I do." Teddy steps up and rests his forehead on Tristan's, and he wallows in the comforting touch for just a moment before he jerks back. 

"I can't share you, Teddy. I can't do that. You have to make a choice."

Teddy bites his lower lip and Tristan _wants_ and like hell is he gonna lose Teddy to some prick named Elvis. But then Teddy says, "You know Merzly really likes you," and - what?

"What does that have to do with anything?" _He does?_ is the question that Tristan wants to ask, but doesn't. 

Teddy fixes him with a patient look. "I like you. You like me. I like Elvis. Elvis likes me. Elvis likes you. And you… like Elvis?"

“Teddy.” Is he suggesting what Tristan thinks he is? He thinks about their conversations, Elvis’ quick humor even in a language that he’s not totally comfortable with. He thinks about what happened after their tryst, Elvis warm and sated and complimentary towards Tristan, in bed and on the ice and over Facetime every night. 

He thinks about Elvis’ mouth on his, the way he took Teddy apart. 

“Maybe we bring Merzly home and we talk about it, all three of us. Together. And then you think about whether I need to make a _choice,”_ Teddy urges, kissing him.

Maybe - Tristan wonders then how it would work, if any of them would get jealous, if any of them would play favorites. He wonders how tough it would be with Elvis in a different state. He wonders what Elvis likes in bed, wonders how Elvis’ mouth would feel on his dick, how it feels to sleep sandwiched between two others.

He wonders how Elvis would look on his knees, getting fucked.

**Author's Note:**

> I may or may not be considering an absolutely filthy chapter 2 here. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
